Fallout: Vae Victus, A Novelization of New Vegas
by Caesar Dictator
Summary: The leader of the Legion initiates a second war with the New California Republic. A courier, Louis Stephens, takes up the delivery of Mr. House's platinum chip. He is shot in the head by Benny while on his journey. Once recovered, he ventures forth to New Vegas, intervening in the affairs of men along the way. Taking back the platinum chip, he forever alters the wastes.
1. Prologue

"The die is cast."

–Gaius Julius Caesar

 **Fallout: Vae Victus – A Novelization of New Vegas**

 **Prologue – Casting the Dice**

War, thought Caesar, never changes. Medieval knights had waged war for glory and fiefdom. Spanish conquistadors fought in the interest of obtaining much gold, riches, for themselves. Through conflict Hitler forged a greater German _Reich._

And, of course, one Gaius Julius Caesar came to, saw, and ultimately conquered _Gaul_ over two thousand years ago.

He'd merely taken the man's name, basing an entire society off the "the Twins' Tenth Legion", knowledge of which he had gleaned from a cache of books discovered back when he still went by the name of Edward Sallow.

But that was a fact best kept secret, he thought to himself, as he sat on a lean horse at the shallow banks of the Colorado River. _Besides, his past self was long dead, a nonentity better left forgotten._

He'd ridden out from Flagstaff, capital of his empire, flanked by his _praetor_ and a cohort on the right. To his left was the ever-loyal Legate Lanius, also sitting atop a horse, whose aging pistol hung low from its holster attached to a worn leather belt.

"Scout, report." Lanius ordered in Latin, his voice fearsome; everyone in his legion spoke the ancient language well and in place of English. The horned bronze mask that he wore, molded in the likeness of the god of war Mars whom Caesar claimed to have been descended from, only added to the Legate's terrifying presence.

"S–sir," the scout began, rightfully scared, "Cottonwood Cove is ours for the taking, if we move swiftly enough. From there, we'll have a firm supply line as well as a base of operations from which we can launch raids into southern Nevada and New California. HailCaesar!" the scout said, raising his arm upwards at an angle, his hand flat like his fingers which sliced through the air. He'd added the salute to the son of Mars almost as an afterthought, no doubt half forgetting to do so judging by the visibly shaken look present in the scout's stark blue eyes.

"Good." Lanius said aloud, "good." He looked back over his shoulder, shooting a quick glance first at the _praetor_ and then at the cohort before looking at Caesar. "Vulpes Inculta shall lead his elite troopsdeep into the New California Republic's territory, while a sizable force will ford the river to secure Cottonwood Cove for our benefit, correct?"

"Indeed." Caesar said, turning around on his horse to face his _praetor_. "Quintus Curius," he said, "let us march back to Flagstaff." They left the riverbank and crossed several miles of harsh desert before reaching the capital, kicking up great clouds of dust. Over four-hundred mounted men went through the huge steel gate; yet more dust swirled around them, sent forth as a powerful engine lifted the gate up off the ground.

Flagstaff had once been nothing more than a smattering of ruinous structures scattered randomly about a midst massive piles of rubble. The pitiful tribes living there were easily defeated, forced into his legion. Caesar set the vanquished tribesmen to work knocking down old buildings and replacing them with proper Roman-style ones. The tribal womenfolk were married off to his legionaries, while the children were raised to be obedient soldiers.

He and his force went down the wide, cobble-stoned streets, his _praetor_ taking the cohort over to a nearby barracks. The Legate Lanius and himself ventured over to the city's citadel, built atop a hill near the forum. Four metal towers situated behind a huge steel wall shot up into the sky from the citadel, whereon snipers watched the city below. They ascended the hill and entered through the gate, riding past throngs of soldiers. Putting their horses into the Imperial stable, they went inside the awesome structure.

The two men walked past numerous guards and climbed up a stairway to Caesar's office. Caesar saw the legate off to a separate office before entering his own.

It was spacious and ornate. On one side, there were shelves full of books, while on another side stood large marble busts of noblemen. A big oaken desk was situated in the center of the room, which he went over to and sat down at.

His secretary briefly came in to give him a stack of papers to read through. He sighed. "Bureaucracy never changes." Caesar then put on his reading glasses, spending the next few hours reading over manifold reports.

Finally getting to the last one, he muttered aloud "So, the centurion Aurelius of Phoenix holds his triumph today? So be it." Aurelius of Phoenix had recently annihilated many hundreds of raiders, worthless barbarians lacking in beauty or virtue who'd been plaguing the land. The brave centurion would be expecting him to attend; he had to be nearly everywhere at once. This fact was a consequence of him setting up society as a tyranny, which he viewed as the best form of government. The tyranny was in stark contrast to the corrupt, decadent republic across the Colorado River. No factious parties existed to muck up the State. Here, only the will of the tyrant prevailed: His will.

Setting the papers aside, he ordered the legate over intercom to prepare the emperor's guard for the triumph, which was set to begin soon. He took off his mail armor and dressed in a simple white toga and purple cape, befitting of the real Caesar. Some time passed before he heard confirmation from Lanius that the emperor's guard was ready. He then went out onto the parade grounds. Before him was the emperor's guard and the legate, already assembled.

"We march." He commanded. They marched through the gate and down the street. His force mixed with Aurelius of Phoenix's cohort, which had joined them in a grand procession to the forum.

Today, he'd make official the fight against the NCR by ordering Aurelius of Phoenix to attack Cottonwood Cove on the morrow.

Standing next to a microphone setup in the forum, he spoke: "Fellow men of the Tenth Legion, today I designate Aurelius of Phoenix first centurion, set to attack Cottonwood Cove tomorrow. His force is the spearhead that will puncture the NCR in the throat. All who are with me in this great endeavor, I beseech you, say yes!"

"Yes! Hail Caesar!" They said in unison, shouting to the skies, giving off the Roman salute.

The die was now cast. Once he crossed the Colorado River, there would be no turning back. Of that, he was certain.


	2. Chapter 1

"It is not things, but opinions about things that have absolutely no existence, which have so deranged mankind!"

–Nietzsche, _The Dawn_

 **Chapter One – Daybreak**

Shady Sand's Tough Town was rough, rougher still when coupled with austerity and high unemployment. Louis Stephens cared for neither, and counted his lucky stars that he currently had employment opportunities as a courier working for the Mojave Express.

Coughing, he forced himself to get out of bed.

"Morning, honey." He said upon entering the kitchen.

"Morning, Lou. Feeling any better?"

"Unfortunately," he said, stepping forwards and reaching for an empty tin mug before pouring himself some coffee, "not really. But life goes on. I have to drag my sorry self to Mr. Wiles."

"Daddy!" His son Bobby said, running into the kitchen, a wide smile on his face.

"Bobby!" He said, running a weathered, sun-tanned hand down across his son's chestnut-colored hair, ruffling it up. The boy's bright blue eyes lit up; their color came from him.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he dug into a plate of eggs with a wooden fork. " _Vero_ , those are some good eggs." He said, utilizing the smattering of Latin he'd picked up on a trip through Caesar's lands made several years ago, delivering a package to Denver.

Finishing the eggs, he got up and kissed his wife and son goodbye.

Home behind him, his boots hit the damp wooden streets, the desert air moist with drizzle. He strode past Carl's General Store, passing a fallen black metallic letter knocked down by last night's heavy rain-storm.

Not many people out, early as it was, which made him feel peaceful. Stepping carefully over horse manure, he ventured into Mr. Wile's Mojave Express office. The space heater set up in the corner radiated warmth as he stepped through the door.

"Louis, good morning. Please do sit down." He did just that, sitting opposite his employer at a simple wrought-iron desk.

"Got your message: you have a job offer for me?"

"Yes, a mighty good one at that. Mr. House needs a package containing a platinum chip delivered to New Vegas. Now, there will be six couriers total, each carrying something a little different. Got five already signed-up. You'll be the sixth hire for the job, if you choose to accept it. 500 bottle caps will be paid upon delivery of the package to the Lucky 38 Casino."

"Great pay. Count me in."

"Now, you will obtain the package at Johnathan Nash's office up in the small southern Nevada town of Primm."

"I'll be there quick."

With those parting words, he left his boss's office and back out into the early-morning chill.

The shining City-State of New Vegas beckoned.

–

The First Recon red beret was the last thing they never saw. Sergeant Philip Young peered down the scope of an M40 sniper rifle at his unsuspecting prey, a slaver from Utah. His finger tense on the trigger, he put the cross hairs roughly over the man's chest, aiming very near to the heart. The slaver was just another stick to be broken.

Confident that his aim was steady, he fired the Forty. The hapless slaver staggered and fell back from the sudden impact of the bullet, a dead man.

The roar of his students' scoped M14 rifles came shortly thereafter. One, two, three more slavers fell to the desert sand, dead.

He fired on the sole remaining slaver, who had tried to turn tail and run. Even as the doomed man started off, a bullet from the Forty caught him just below the jaw. Blood spurted from the slaver's neck, part of it torn asunder by the powerful blast, sinewy bits of muscle and skin carried away with the fast-moving bullet. Hitting the pavement, he gripped uselessly at the gaping wound and wildly thrashed about, Young watching as the lousy bastard bled.

Then silence. Somewhere, crickets chirped. Otherwise, all that could be heard was the chilling wind that came in as evening gradually slipped into night. For a time, no one spoke.

"Hardly in the black, but this wasn't mere target practice at the gun range." He said aloud, breaking the uneasy calm, slowly rising from the ground. "This was the real thing." His voice was serious, firm, grainy bits of sand falling from his khaki camouflage as he arose.

"Could be worse," Corporal Kyle Bryson said, rising in turn, "the First could've stuck us in a lonely little observation post somewhere." The tall, lanky student sniper had a point. There were those in First Recon who had no love for sharpshooters, and who didn't know shit about how to use them properly. _Goddamned marine infantrymen._

"Agreed. Going off the mark a little is a lot better than roasting in a concrete box." PFC Ryan Keys replied, now standing on his two feet admiring the view, sticking a cigarette in his mouth as he spoke. "Anyone gotta lighter?"

Young, wordless, handed him one from his pocket, smiling and wiping sand away from his camo fastidiously. Both students had done well cutting down their live targets swiftly and no doubt coolly. For that, the rookies were to be commended, if only for that.

As he stood, looking out at the highway below that was rife with a never-ending stream of wrecked, stationary cars, the smile gradually faded from his face. In Utah proper, NCR pioneers pushed ever deeper, armed and constantly clashing with the Mormon authorities. "It's only a matter of time …" He muttered to himself, distractedly staring eastwards. _Before we or Caesar's Legion start a war with the Mormons over the blasted place. Both of us have regularly violated Deseret's sovereignty, after all._ However, that was for the politicians to decide, he thought as to partially reassure himself that an outbreak of war was not inevitable.

It was either war over Utah or Hoover Dam. Take your pick.

"What, sir?" Corporal Bryson asked.

"Just thinking out loud." He then turned to face the two rookies, serious, his face stony. "Let's radio back to camp." As he spoke, he motioned to the bulky tan radio set off to the side. Meant to be worn around one's back, the large radio allowed for constant back-and-forth contact between camp and a sniper team out in the field. Young moved to pick up the receiver, putting it close to his mouth, holding the button down. "Diego 2-8, this is Diego 2-7. How copy?"

Young waited for a reply, listening at first to hissing static.

"Roger, Diego 2-7. What is the status of your mission, over?" The voice came through tinny, distorted. However, it bore the unmistakable, raspy tone that could only have belonged to Lieutenant Peter Dawson, commander of Whisper Platoon.

"Mission accomplished. Heading back to the barn, over."

"Copy, Diego 2-7. Be safe out there. Raiders can be a real pain in the ass these days, over."

"Acknowledged, Diego 2-8. Diego 2-7, out."

The aging marine had spoken the hard truth. The NCR was still busy pacifying the very edge of the Mojave, not committing as many troops as both he and the lieutenant would have liked owing to a hyper-focus on keeping the roads straddling the much more populated areas nearer to New Vegas safe. As it was, a literal barn that was situated near an old farmhouse held one platoon, their platoon.

Sure, the boys from Victor Company could come in at any time, but they were not actually at the barn as the snipers of Whisper Platoon yearned to keep the lowest profile. As for the other companies making up the First, those were scattered across a vast terrain, policing the porous border with Utah, not just the one section of highway that Dawson and his few men were put in charge of monitoring.

Of late, all that they had to worry about were the occasional movements of raiders or slavers operating in the general area. For that, just in case, he had an M16 assault rifle that he had taken with him. Proper procedure, for a sniper; he acknowledged the obvious thought with a smile.

Descending the ridge, Bryson carrying the radio on his back, they began to walk back to camp onto the road. The chilling wind whistled across the wastes. A full blue moon hung low over the darkened sky, lighting the way to a degree, but just barely. Walking ahead of his students, Young abruptly stopped, sending his gaze over to a small gas station positioned not too far away.

"Sir?" Corporal Bryson said, confused from seeing his commander halt in front of him.

"Nothing, corporal." He continued to look at the ruinous structure situated several klicks away on the road opposite from them, thinking just then that he had seen shadows flicker briefly against the decrepit walls of the building, swearing to himself that a glimmer of light shone in that direction.

Gunfire. Three rapid bursts from an automatic rifle over the chirping crickets, over the wind.

"Shit‒" the youthful PFC never got a chance to finish his sentence. Two bullets struck him squarely in the chest, pushing him backwards to the ground. The third one cracked past Young's head. At once kneeling before Keys, he unbuttoned the top part of his uniform to expose the Kevlar body vest that lay beneath.

More frenzied shots followed, bullets kicking up sand very near to him. Looking again more closely at PFC Key's vest even as bullets continued to hit the ground all around him, he noticed a trace of blood, which had begun to trickle out from the wounds.

"Med-x." Keys said, gritting his teeth, placing both hands over his vest. "Med-x." He said again, his hands forming into tight fists.

"Hold on." Sergeant Young said before rising back up, shouldering his assault rifle, swinging his body around to face the gas station.

He took aim and fired at those attackers flanking from the right. Several of the fuckers hit the dirt, but many more came forwards at him.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the harsh roar of an engine broke through the sounds of gunfire and the sickening noise of the rippers that begged for soft flesh. He saw a salvaged jeep toting a mounted .50-cal drive up and then stop a good number of paces away from the gas station.

The gunner aboard the jeep swiveled the turret to the left, spraying the raiders with hot lead, knocking down those enemies advancing from that flank in short order. The right-wing met the same fate, cut down by a hail of powerful bullets.

The .50-cal now swiveled over to the gas station, raking it with immense firepower, tearing to bits wood, brick, and raiders all the same. As the turret gunner did his work, Young once more knelt onto the ground before the injured PFC. Remembering Corporal Bryson, he glanced up to see him lying flat on his back. If he was moving, alive, he couldn't tell.

"Med-x." Even before PFC Keys spoke weakly, agonizingly, Young had already removed his backpack which he placed beside him, digging through it hastily in the hopes of finding some Med-x. Finding the Med-x, several doses worth, he took out a syringe from his pack and injected it into Keys, who continued to ball his fists which began to loosen up as the Med-x entered his veins. Blood smeared his Kevlar, yet more of it surging forth. "Christ, thank you." He said, calmer now, his voice sedate. Young put pressure onto the part of his chest wherein the bullets had penetrated, deeper than he had originally thought, feeling warm blood rush out onto his palms and through his fingers.

The deafening roar of the .50-cal meanwhile stopped, the gunner having completed his macabre task. Two squads' worth of men moved to secure the already aged, beaten down building, now shot up. Chunks of brick littered the ground, the wooden porch on the old-fashioned prewar gas station entirely gone, with only chips of wood both big and small left to tell of its former existence. Another squad went over to where Young was. In no time, it seemed, they arrived.

"Victor Company, Death Claw Platoon. I'm Staff Sergeant Westfield, in charge of this force." Westfield looked down at PFC Keys, then saw Corporal Bryson lying down still, propped up by the radio worn around his back.

"He's dead!" A soldier shouted, several men having gone over to the lifeless body, hoping along with Young that he was still alive.

Young stared into Key's face, which came off as serene, almost in an eerie way. Looking up at the staff sergeant, blood still pouring out over onto his hands, he asked quietly "what happened?"

Westfield said nothing for a while, finally saying "war happened." Looking back down, he watched as the color drained from the PFC's face, his eyes turning glassy with death.

Both students were now dead, killed under his watch.


End file.
